


Faith

by Ntjnke



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: AU Fantasy, Archive warning labels exist for a reason, Chose not to use archive warnings, M/M, Mpreg, bottom!Arthur, proceed at your own risk, really people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-16 08:12:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21504676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ntjnke/pseuds/Ntjnke
Summary: The goddess looked around her home, at the glittering beauty that was her life, and nodded. For the truth was that her home was not in their palace, but in her kin. And when they had revealed themselves before to the mortals, those mortals had walked in twos, often with young around them. And this mortal had everything and walked alone. That, she decided, was what was wrong. The gods had provided a means of living, but not a reason, to this one lonely mortal.And so while he slept, the goddess fashioned for the mortal a companion, to hold and keep every night moving forward. His blessing was strong, and able, and beautiful to his eye. And when he woke, the mortal looked at the person lying next to him, sleeping deeply, and knew this wasn’t a fellow traveler or even a mortal like himself.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 66





	Faith

***

No matter what he did, the fever grew, and Arthur shed layer after layer, attempting to continue, to make it to the keep he could see over the next rise.  
  
To think that Morgana, his sister, had betrayed him made him more weak than the heat that was robbing his thoughts. Even if he survived, he could not go home. She has poisoned him, and doubtlessly she would not hesitate to have him murdered.  
  
But without the ability to go home, he had only the clothes on his back and his purse. He was a pauper, and would be reduced to begging for employ in a foreign land, his sword hand his only strength.  
  
The fever took him and Arthur fell to his knees, wondering how a fever death in a field of flowers could be the end of a Crowned Prince.  
  
****  
_It is written that long ago, when the earth was still quite small, that a mortal man wandered the earth, furious about his station in life.  
  
__His grandparents, having known the gods in their mortal form, had taught his parents worship and humility, secure in the knowledge that they had learned these lessons from the gods themselves, when the gods were still young enough and curious enough to explore the world with earthly bodies and honest fascination.  
  
__His parents had passed on this knowledge, having never seen a god or even anything truly godly. But they had been secure in the knowledge that their parents spoke with reverence of them. And what was good enough for their parents had brought to them health and plenty.  
  
__And yet this mortal man found himself walking away from his village, filled with anger and resentment, with no respect for any gods of legend and their supposed gifts.  
  
__He was leaving his home because if he stayed, there wouldn’t be enough food for the coming winter for them all. He was leaving because he, and a few other good men, had looked around and realized that, of all of them, they had the highest chance of surviving away from home and living rough through the winter.  
  
__And while teaching said he should give invocations to the gods for the bodily strength that allowed this, all he could feel was how light his pack was, how hollow his belly felt, and the aching sadness that there wasn’t a soul around him who cared if he ate that night. Or if he even survived.  
  
__It was on this very angry day that a goddess in heaven took a moment’s curiosity to look down upon the still rather new earth to see if any of the children had done anything wonderful. Unlike her and all her kin, mortals had a unique gift of spinning turmoil into the most fascinating change. Predictable turmoil creating unpredictable glory, and she loved them dearly for it.  
  
__So on this day when she looked down, she saw the child (grandchild?) of her first mortals, and when she reached out to hear his thoughts she heard only longing for home, and comfort, and rest. In heaven, she paused and listened carefully, to see if the mortal would take the time to tell her what was hurting him so, and yet there were no invocations being said, and no talismans of worship were on his person.  
  
__She was confused.  
  
__And honestly having very little else to do, she watched the mortal man continue to trek across his field. She watched as he laid down down that night to rest, and reached out to him so that she could see his dreams. Dreams, she had learned, where invocations mortals often could not put into words, or more honestly, had not yet found the words to express.  
  
__And still, even that close to him, she only found longings for home, for comfort, for rest.  
  
__This unsettled the goddess, as she was unsure of what to do next. The mortal walked through a verdant field. In front of him was a forest, teeming with life, with growth enough for shelter and food. When she looked over him, he was in good health, with no illness and no scars to bear from past illness. His dreams showed her that he was both kind and cunning, and so using the gifts around him would not challenge him overly. He had no earthly need. She and her kin had provided everything, and he should be content.  
  
__And yet.  
  
__The goddess looked around her home, at the glittering beauty that was her life, and nodded. For the truth was that her home was not in their palace, but in her kin. And when they had revealed themselves before to the mortals, those mortals had walked in twos, often with young around them. And this mortal had everything and walked alone. That, she decided, was what was wrong. The gods had provided a means of living, but not a reason, to this one lonely mortal.  
  
__And so while he slept, the goddess fashioned for the mortal a companion, to hold and keep every night moving forward. His blessing was strong, and able, and beautiful to his eye. And when he woke, the mortal looked at the person lying next to him, sleeping deeply, and knew this wasn’t a fellow traveler or even a mortal like himself.  
  
_“She was The First Blessing!”  
  
“Hush child, or I won’t get to finish the story.”  
  
_The goddess watched as the mortal man moved from anger, to disbelief, and finally to awe. And she listened as he gave his first invocation for guidance, and asked how to show thanks.  
  
_“And then they got married, mother?”  
  
Hunith kissed her son’s hair, wondering why she bothered to tell these stories when she knew they just made his mind spin with yet more stories. “No, my dear. First they traveled together and the mortal had to care for his blessing, as she learned the world around her.”  
  
“Did they live in the forest?”  
  
“Not nearly darling. They had so much to do, and so there are many stories I will have to tell you later. But all you need to know tonight is that they eventually did settle, and built a small home between the forest and the river, where they lived quite happily.”  
  
“And their farm grew to become all of Albion!”  
  
“It did indeed. And their labors so impressed the gods, that they from then on they noted the dreams of mortals who had pure wishes, and gave them Blessings of their own.”  
  
“And this is why I must go to temple.”  
  
Hunith laughed and hugged her son, so very much in love with the little life she had created.  
  
“This is why you must always be a good man. For the gods will notice, and be sublime in their gifts.”  
  
*****  
Suffice it to say that when Merlin found a beautiful man, lying among flowers on the path he took daily between his small home and the village keep, it humbled him.  
  
Saying an invocation of humility, Merlin knelt beside him in the grass, to see how he could help. Blessings, he had been taught, are given by the gods themselves. But they are not indestructible.  
  
*****  
“Where are we going?”  
  
Merlin held tight to the hip rope that was keeping his blessing behind him, knowing full well he needed to be careful of the route.  
  
He had tried to untie his blessing, just once, only to nearly lose him as he tried to scrabble away. So from then on he had guided him bound at the hands and loosely bound at the foot, but didn’t have the heart to gag him as well. Overall, his blessing looked healthier than when Merlin had found him, and for now that was enough.  
  
Merlin pointed ahead, to the right of the setting sun. “North, to the keep of my lord protector. Camelot is large enough to barter your armor and sword.”  
  
“That armor is _mine_. You cannot take it or sell it. It is property of a noble family and to sell it against my will is thievery.”  
  
"Both are steel overlaid with silver and gold, and the money will feed and support you, _us_ , for weeks.”  
  
Arthur did his best to glare at his captor, angry at his weakness and his position.  
  
“There would be no need to feed me if you would simply let me go.”  
  
“You can hardly feed yourself at the end of the day, you are so weak. Just leaving you would kill you.“  
  
“Then a compromise. We’ll go to this Camelot, you help me arrange transport, and you can have my purse as well as a percentage from the sold armor. I will find my own way from there. My sold armor will support me twice as long as it would do the two of us, and you still walk away with profit.”  
  
As he had all thus far, his captor continued to walk, pulling the rope attached to Arthur’s throat, forcing him to keep up.  
  
“This isn’t making any sense!” Arthur tugged at his leash, knowing after days of walking that there was no fear that it would tighten on him. “You have said you are not a slaver. You have said I am a free man. And yet you won’t release me and I am bound hand and foot. Explain yourself!”  
  
Merlin turned briefly, to make sure Arthur had not chafed himself on the rope. Yet more lessons from the journey thus far.  
  
“You were given to me by the gods, and so I will keep you safe. Now that you are secure, we must go to the holy lands and I will give thanks for you, as demanded by holy scripture. I have funds for journey, thank the gods, but your armor will buy us a horse strong enough to carry two and better supplies.”  
  
“You are a kidnapper and foul criminal.”  
  
“Hush, Blessing.”  
  
****  
Arthur vowed to himself that no one would ever learn of the day he spent tied to the back of barn, stabled among horses. And one donkey. His captor, as if he were _mere property_ , had handed the rope end to a stable man and paid him silver coin, and Arthur had spent the day with a foul bucket behind him, a pail of water in front of him, and stable boys feeding him bits of fruit spitted on the ends of sticks.  
  
When his captor returned, it was with several bulging leather satchels. He also had a large parcel, wrapped separately in heavy red wool, and Arthur couldn’t help but noticed that it was treated carefully, always set on top of other packages and out of risk for falling.  
  
His captor disappeared again after this, and Arthur had the hideous experience of having a stable boy wipe him down after he had used the bucket but couldn’t use his hands.  
  
Several hours later his captor returned with a roan, saddled, and large enough to easily carry the two of them and the packages.  
  
Even knowing he was being watched, Arthur threw himself back in the hay and howled in frustration.  
  
****  
The first day of travel taught Arthur that there were worse indignities than being made to stable with the horses. Now the foul bastard had him tied to the horse and was using a knife to cut off his clothes.  
  
“There is nothing wrong with these clothes! The fabric is well made! I will change!”  
  
“You will not change. You will fight me, and then try to run as you have every day since I came upon you.” There was a terrible rip and the side seams of Arthur’s tunic gave. “And _in your so-called escape_ , you will exhaust yourself. So then you will be weak, but still struggling against the necessary bonds at your hands and feet, and I will be the one forced to give you tincture to make sure you sleep. This is easier. And better for you.”  
  
Arthur stamped at the ground, knowing full well it made him look just like the horse he was tied to and not giving a damn.  
  
“So I am to be marched off to this holy land of yours, for god knows what reason, naked and sun burned?”  
  
There was a soft rustle, and when he turned toward Merlin, he saw him holding up a large piece of fine linen, no different from the cloths used at temple in Tintagel, except this cloth had a simple hole cut and seamed in its center.  
  
“You must be kidding.”  
  
Merlin rustled the cloth at him, as if that in any way made it more appealing.  
  
“You are a blessing unto my life by the gods themselves, and scripture teaches that you should be clothed only in the purest cloth I can procure, covered simply from neck to foot.”  
  
“I’ll be naked!”  
  
“You’ll be covered in pure cloth, and no journeyman from Camelot to the holy lands will question why you are covered so. Quite the opposite. They will leave you be out of respect, and we will have a quieter pilgrimage for it.”  
  
As he had ever since waking to find Merlin leaning over him, Arthur showed his refusal by turning away, this time with his forehead pressed to Derwyn’s saddle.  
  
“I refuse. I will not be dressed as if I were a virgin sacrifice to your barbarian gods.”  
  
A chuckle met his words. “I have no idea why your people might sacrifice virgins, but know that in these lands, this is the clothing of angels. And you are putting it on.”  
  
“No.”  
  
And then Merlin proceeded to show him why pure cloth was cut simply, with only a hole for one’s head, and held in place with rope or ribbon.  
  
****

Most days, if Merlin were honest with himself, were bad days. Very bad days.  
  
His blessing often refused to eat. Merlin would have to pry his mouth open, and learned very quickly to always use a spoon or the metal spatula after he had been bitten trying to use his fingers. While Arthur continued to fight wads of soft fibers soaked in sleep tincture, he wouldn’t risk his teeth over food.  
  
Their supplies went more quickly than anticipated. If Merlin fed his blessing normal rations, at night he could hear his stomach growl and he would be weak all the next day. Merlin had already sold his extra clothes and his marks of service to afford more dried meat, and yet he could tell, even with no measuring tapes or scales, that his blessing was thinner than he had been. As he sheltered his blessing’s body with is own at night, he noted how much further his arms wrapped around him and how he no longer shivered at the cold, or even complained about it.  
  
****  
“You’re not eating.”  
  
Arthur sat by the fire, watching as Merlin repacked the satchels, including the small pot and bowls he had used to prepare their dinner. Well, his dinner, and the dregs that Merlin had let himself have afterwards.  
  
“No.”  
  
“You can’t just not eat!'  
  
“Of course I can, and that’s exactly what I am doing.”  
  
“And what happens to me when you fall down weak? Do I lie in some godforsaken foreign field, tied hand and foot, because you were too foolish to take a full day’s food?”  
  
“I’ve had more than enough.” Merlin tied the satchels closed, setting them at the edge of their encampment. With a groan, he stood and started, yet again, to prepare their sleep rolls. “I have no idea what it is like where you are from, but you must have grown up eating more than I calculated for. I won’t have you grow weak because you aren’t eating enough.”  
  
“And meanwhile it is fine for you to become my skeleton guide, both my protector and my talisman of death to would-be brigands.“  
  
Merlin held their canteen of water to Arthur’s lips, refusing to move until he had drank enough for the night.  
  
“It would help if I had any idea what you had done, what you had eaten, how you had worked, before I found you.” Moving away, Merlin grabbed their warmest blanket and gave it a sharp shake. “I don’t exaggerate when I say that all I know is that you are finely made and that your armor bore the sigil of Tintagel. It hardly helps one plan a pilgrimage.” Merlin moved around him, checking their camp site before lying down himself. “I guess I could also add that I know you will murder me in my sleep if I untie you.”  
  
“It isn’t murder to try to gain freedom from slavery.”  
  
“It isn’t slavery when your comfort and well-being come before that of your so-called slaver.”  
  
“Then let me go!”  
  
“No. Never.”  
  
“Then untie me.”  
  
“No, not until I know you won’t run.”  
  
“You are a slaver. I am being transported to a foreign land against my will, for purposes I don’t consent to.”  
  
“Careful transport, using whatever means necessary to keep you from hurting someone until you understand that you are in the position of power here.”  
  
Merlin put their bed roll close enough to the fire that Arthur should not get cold, but not too close that his inevitable struggles against the ropes might get him burned. “Now, down you go. You can be nearer the fire.”  
  
“I have family. They won’t pay for me, but they won’t be embarrassed by leaving me in bondage. They will trade for me.”  
  
“Hmmm. A family that won’t pay for you. And you ask to be traded for goods. Yet you call this here, tonight, slavery.”  
  
“I don’t belong here. And I would never stay of my own free will.”  
  
“If you tell me how to make it more what you want, I will do my best. But first you must tell me absolutely anything about yourself.” In front of him, Arthur seemed to both settle on the bed roll and struggle at the same time, which by now was oddly familiar and infuriating and not something he had the energy right now to ponder.  
  
“For instance, a name would be nice. You were dressed as a man who has a family, so you must have a family name as well. And why were you so far from home?”  
  
His blessing turned towards the fire, his mouth shut.  
  
“Where will you go, should you run? Not so much because I intend to follow you, but because I literally sold the clothes off your back. Who will care for you and make sure you make it through the upcoming winter?”  
  
Silence.  
  
“Well, then. I shall be hungry and you shall be fed. If there is a blanket, and tonight there is one, you will be warm and I will keep you safe through the night. What coin I have left is pledged to your wellbeing and comfort.” Merlin laid down behind Arthur and made sure that in front of him Arthur was completely covered in warm red wool.  
  
“Tell me where I can take you where they are able and willing to take care of you better than I am, and I will consider it. Until then, I suggest you consider not fighting me and accepting that you are safest here. Then I’ll untie you.”  
  
Of course, there was no acknowledgement of his words.  
  
“Good night, Blessing. Sleep well.”  
  
****

Several weeks into their journey, they veered away from the river that had been their guide thus far, and Arthur learned that his slaver had more unsavory rituals for him.  
  
“You must bathe.”  
  
“I need do nothing but stare at you in hatred and wish for your death.”  
  
“Fine though that may be, you also need to bathe.” Merlin set down the bucket of warmed water near Arthur, wondering how this was going to be done when in the past there had at least been a nearby stream to make things easier.  
  
His head hurt knowing how the next few hours would go.  
  
“Why bathe to ride naked across a foreign plain? Better yet, why bathe if you are not a slaver preparing me for market, or a mad religious fanatic who intends to kill me?”  
  
From their bags Merlin drew plain soap, a small hank of wool, and a simple cloth that could be used for drying. He set aside the precious second set of pure cloth, knowing that if it were readily at hand, there might be a hope of getting it over his blessing’s head.  
  
“One bathes to show respect to themselves and to those around them. You’re bathing today to show respect to the gods who gave you to me, and me to you.” At the sound of Arthur digging in the dirt with his heels, Merlin simply dunked the wool in clean water. “And for those gods’ sake, blessing, you are gorgeous to behold but reek like middens. This is only fixing something that reflects not on you but rather on the journey. _It’s soap_.”  
  
“Don’t you come near me with that. I am more than capable of bathing myself at the next source of water, and I will cry murder if you think you can touch me with-“.  
  
For the first time in weeks, Merlin felt no regret at using just a bit of cloth to silence his blessing. Sunlight had no claim in comparison to his beauty, but dear gods was he easier to behold silent.  
  
****  
“Why do you call them the holy lands?”  
  
The fire crackles, and Arthur notes that Merlin looks at fire, and then at his feet. Indeed, for the first time in days, Merlin is looking anywhere but at him.  
  
“What’s there? Who’s there? Are we going to a temple?”  
  
Arthur is not only tied at hands and feet, but also is tied at his waist to a nearby fallen tree, which is largely why Merlin had chosen this camp ground in the first place. It had been over a month of travel, and despite everything, Merlin knew that if he looked away, his blessing would be trying every cord in an attempt to escape.  
  
An attempt that would have no food, no water, no clothing, and no coin.  
  
The gods had not built him a Blessing possessing an easy spirit.  
  
That alone let Merlin know they he shouldn’t answer the question. But then, if he couldn’t tell his blessing the answer...who else was there to tell, and they were already weeks into pilgrimage. He could not argue even to himself that there were too many other things to do, or that Arthur had to many other basics to accept. His blessing, _Arthur_ , sat across from him dressed only in pure cloth, well-fed, well rested, and curious about the pilgrimage.  
  
Nevertheless, before he answered, he let his eyes travel the ropes between bound hands, bound feet, and the log. Just to check.  
  
“The holy lands are not for touring.” Merlin, as always, had served Arthur’s food first, making sure the portion was enough until morning, accepting that his meal would be anything left over. “The holy lands are the preferred earth of the gods, kept by the spirit guides, and found throughout history to be where one can kneel in prayer to the gods and truly hope to be seen.”  
  
Arthur, as always, is unable to sit without tugging at his bonds. His ability to both converse while also attempting escape is something that Merlin has learned to appreciate, even while losing sleep over it at the same time.  
  
“It’s said that when they first saw and loved mortal man, that is the land they stood upon, and so it holds a special place in their hearts.”  
  
“But then what is the worth of prayer at all, if you must go to some place far away to be heard?” There was a grunt as his Arthur attempted to contort himself in a new way to try his bindings, as if Merlin weren’t watching him the entire time. “Why go so far away? Why not go to a temple, or a church? Why not visit a holy man in a village? Why do you have to go so far to pray?” Unashamedly, Arthur turned in his contortions to make a point. “In Tin — Where I’m from, we had a priest who visited and taught us history and led prayers. Surely, that isn’t a rare concept.”  
  
“One does not ask the gods to change their holy lands for convenience.”  
  
"So your people don’t believe in churches.”  
  
“We have churches. We just admit they are for our own convenience and not for the gods. They are places of solidarity rather than worship.”  
  
“So we are tired, starving and cold so you can pray on ground far away yet holy, rather than reasonably accessible ground in goddamned Cymry.”  
  
“Cymry is not damned. It’s rural.” Merlin grabs the satchel with their sleep gear, and trusts that if his blessing has not gone anywhere yet, he is secure for the night. “But where you are from, and Cymry for that matter, is not all of Albion. And yes, as long as both of us are able, we are going to pray on holy land.”  
  
There is a soft sound of frustration and a dull thump. Without looking, Merlin guesses its his blessing pounding his bound hands against the log.  
  
“You’re a fucking lunatic. I will not die on a quest for a patch of land so you can say arcane words on special grass.”  
  
Arthur watches as Merlin banks the fire. He doesn’t say a word, nor does he ask Arthur if he wants water before sleep. For the first times since his capture,his captor is tense and distant.  
  
It raises this odd combination of victory and regret in him to realize that he is finally seeing Merlin insulted and upset. For once there is not only one person present who is angry and humiliated. Not that Arthur would ever regret thoughts like that. To pity your captor is madness.  
  
“I have been shown and given blessing, and I have the physical strength and resources to make pilgrimage.”  
  
The blanket is pulled over the both of them. Arthur feels Merlin’s hands tucking one edge fo the blanket over and around him, making sure the edges are secured under any parts of him not physically bound to the log. Merlin, as he has every night, settles behind and slightly over him, testing every restraint for both its security and also to make sure it doesn’t put Arthur at any odd angles.  
  
“I know you don’t understand this, and you may not understand it for a while yet, but everything we are doing is for you.”  
  
Arthur snorted.  
  
And so Merlin did do his best to explain, albeit to his blessing’s back, the prayers given at the holy rocks of Nefoedd.  
  
Arthur began to scream.  
  
****  
Merlin suspected he would never forget the way his blessing looked, face blotchy, clearly terrified, as Merlin used the metal spatula to put more soft fiber with sleep tincture in his mouth.  
  
Once he was asleep, Merlin placed a hand in his blessing’s hair, _Arthur’s_ hair, and stared at the sky above them.  
  
He cried while mouthing invocations for rest, peace, and understanding. Not for him, but for his blessing.  
  
****  
Merlin’s mother had always said that that which is earned is more valuable than that which is given. So it had come as a surprise when she had boxed him around the ears for saying that church was stupid, catechism was boring, and blessings, when they are given, were _clearly_ going to be worthless.  
  
His left ear had hurt for weeks after that.  
  
Since then, age and humility has taught him that no true blessing is worthless. However, they are not necessarily _easy_.  
  
“I have told you countless times that this is a pilgrimage. That we are on a holy journey. I have hidden nothing from you.”  
  
“You did not say you were planning to rape me!”  
  
“It isn’t rape.”  
  
“You sick fuck.”  
  
“If I am found worthy by the spirit guides, you will be presented in the fashion of royalty before gods, bound by consecrated rope to holy earth, and I will kneel before you in prayers of obeisance, respect, and worship.”  
  
“I don’t want this. _That_ makes it rape.”  
  
“I know you think that. That doesn’t make it true. You would not be here if the gods did not give you to me.” No response. “Blessing, whether you agree or not, you need to calm yourself. It is time to sleep. A natural sleep with no tincture, to protect your health. You are perfectly safe.”  
  
“Get away from me.”  
  
“We have one blanket and you will be warmer this way.”  
  
“Your lord protector is the warden of a prison camp, and your gods are demons.”  
  
“ _Blessing._ ”  
  
“My name is Arthur!”  
  
Until he died Merlin will deny the way he screamed a little.  
  
“Lie down! It’s too cold for this!” Merlin forced himself to take a breath, and then patted the bedroll that his blessing sat next to but refused to move towards. “I will keep you, with my body if necessary, until the holy lands, and I will not let any harm come to you.“  
  
“I appreciate your devotion to waiting for a particular setting before you violate me.”  
  
“Blessing.” No response. No movement. “Fine then. My Blessing, who was named Arthur Pendragon of Tintagel, will you please listen to me?”  
  
Of course, after insulting him and his faith for an hour, his blessing chose this moment to turn away and refuse to speak.  
  
The gesture filled Merlin with a sense of hopelessness that he will never be able to explain such a simple truth to the only person in his life who needed to understand it.  
  
“Fine. My Blessing, who _is_ named Arthur Pendragon of Tintagel, you are, and always will be, absolutely safe with me.” There was no response, and so he just continued, again starting the routine of checking his blessing’s bonds and doing his best to tuck their blanket around him.  
  
“This entire journey exists only out of respect that you were given unto me. And because of this, I have spent my life savings to be able to present you with utmost humility in the favored land of the gods. You are absolutely safe.”  
  
“You are delusional.”  
  
“I see you as a gift from the gods. And you will _always_ be treated as such.”  
  
“A lunatic barbarian, kidnapping me for rape on foreign grass, disguising his perversions as faith.”  
  
“We are going to holy ground where you will be laid between The Rocks of Nefoedd, bare except for consecrated oil and balm. As supplicant to the gods, I will kneel in prayer and exhaust myself in faith to show my devotion to the gods and thanks for their benediction.”  
  
Arthur heard, but could not see, Merlin digging through Derwyn’s packs.  
  
“If I knew, without doubt, that you would journey with me, I would remove these bonds immediately. So I cannot give you every comfort, but I can keep you safe. I will always keep you safe.”  
  
And then Merlin was using a metal spatula to fill his mouth with soft fiber soaked in yet more sleep tincture, held in place with a strip of soft cloth.  
  
Sedation took hold as Merlin arranged their bodies for sleep. Merlin wondered if the gods watched them on this pilgrimage, Arthur yet again drugged and Merlin again crying.  
  
****  
Tithe, put simply, was terrible.  
  
If Merlin was honest with himself, neither catechism or nor schoolboy gossip had prepared him for the utter embarrassment of having a blessing draped only in soft cloth around him every hour of every day.  
  
Tithe was made constantly. It soaked his small clothes, and then his breeches, and hand to be scraped from his thighs.  
  
Church had taught that tithe was to be displayed on a blessing’s forehead, and then cheeks, smoothed from the face down to the feet. But no one had described the experience of sitting on your blessing, while he was tied at his hands and feet, with him snarling and fighting every application for display. No one had told him that invocations could barely be said when all of one’s breath was being used to hold a blessing in place.  
  
Merlin had learned that evening prayer was to made alone, and that oblation given unto his blessing only at dawn after he had tied his blessing to the saddle, with his feet and hands secured, but before he was draped in soft cloth. He had tried, as was his blessing’s right, to present his oblation warm and wet to his blessing’s mouth, only to be snarled at and nearly bitten.  
  
And it seemed disrespectful to use it soak soft fibers, never mind his blessing’s hatred of even seeing them now because of their association with sleep tincture.  
  
Merlin still had a sore jaw from the one time he had suggested that he could draw runes on his blessing’s back, displaying his oblation as a sign of respect and deference.  
  
His blessing had rammed his skull backwards into Merlin’s face.  
  
Merlin spoke several Gaelic languages and still didn’t understand what his blessing was saying, as they rode every day with oblation and then tithe dried against his skin. From his blessing’s tone, he only knew it was endless curses. Understanding of the specific words used wasn’t needed for that.  
  
****  
“Please. Please don’t cry. It breaks my heart to see you cry.” Merlin tucked their blanket around Arthur, doing his best to ensure his comfort, even though any grown man could tell that physical comfort would not help his blessing tonight. “Please, tell me how to help you tonight.”  
  
“Let me go.”  
  
“I cannot do that, as you do not belong to me.”  
  
Arthurs tears became ugly sobs, and Merlin pulled his jacket closer around him, kneeling beside Arthur, afraid to touch him lest he make it worse.  
  
“It’s true. I cannot keep one who does not belong to me, and our pilgrimage is only a journey to show the gods their blessing was seen, and to give thanks for you. “ Merlin ran his hands through his hair, feeling helpless and frustrated.  
  
"And after. When you are done?”  
  
“Well, then I’ll bring you home.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“To Tintagel? That’s where you said you’re from?” Merlin watched his blessing’s face, trying to see if this in any way calmed him. “I’ll bring you home and make reparations to your family for your time away.” Merlin moved Arthur’s hair out of his eyes, and then was sure to move back again, broadcasting that he wouldn’t come any closer. “After that, however long those reparations take, I will return home to my lord protector.”  
  
That promise, more than anything else, seemed to settle Arthur.  
  
When Arthur grew frustrated, or did something to risk the return of binding his feet, or accused him of foul violation, Merlin would remind him that, if he truly wanted, Merlin would make sure he was returned home. After Nefoedd.  
  
After that there was no more sleep tincture. For his blessing’s sake, even the soft fiber was put away deep in a satchel with other supplies only for emergencies.  
  
****  
  
Merlin gave the reins to the junior guide who approached. He watched as their roan was turned away and led far enough away that his blessing could see, but not hear, their conversation.  
  
In front of him, the elder waved and gestured to the ground before him, giving him space to kneel.  
  
“Hail, Supplicant.”  
  
“Hail, Spirit Guide. ”  
  
“I wish you strength in spirit and sublime benediction.”  
  
“I thank you for your teachings and mercy.”  
  
Despite having spend a lifetime practicing those words, it still felt odd to say them out loud to man of religion. And even though he knew it made him look like a child, he took a moment to look at his hands in his lap rather than at the holy man in front of him.  
  
But the lands in front of him were for prayer, and despite being holy they were also busy. Doubtless the holy man knew this and time could not be wasted.  
  
Still, Merlin found it hard to speak.  
  
The guide gently cleared his throat.  
  
“Have you worshipped before?”  
  
“No, never on holy ground. I tried once in my homeland, but I was weak in spirit, and my weak knowledge of scripture led to my failure.”  
  
“Confess.”  
  
A hot flushed burned as it swept up his neck and across his cheeks. The holy land was not a place for insincerity or falsehood, however embarrassing his truths were.  
  
“I was on patrol for my lord protector when the gods showed me blessing.”  
  
It took a moment or two to separate his memories from his shame, but knowing his responsibility to his faith and his pilgrimage, he continued.  
  
“My blessing was as if built from my childhood prayers, every line my image of catechism given form. His back was turned, and the gods made it easy for me to approach, for me to lay him down and keep him safe.”  
  
His mouth went dry. For some odd reason, he imagined his mother’s face, her disappointment whenever he embarrassed her in company.  
  
This is a holy place. Half-truths were not to be told.  
  
“I knelt in prayer, my blessing guarded with my body, but my convictions were not strong enough to let me give myself over to holy worship and also keep him.”  
  
He looked past the guide to the sky over the famous field in front of him. “In the end, I simply spilled over the earth. My arms grew weak and my blessing became scared and ran. If not for my commander who had followed me, he would have fled to the tree line.”  
  
“What did you do?”  
  
“As I had always been taught. As endless years of faith drills, a rut is not to be confused with or misrepresented as prayer. I covered my spend with fresh earth. With the help of my commander, I held him with a clear and confessed heart as he was tied and prepared for presentation to my lord protector and the church.”  
  
“And he was brought to holy land?”  
  
“No, I could not afford to make pilgrimage with him to make restitution. He was libation at mass.”  
  
“You feel guilt over this.”  
  
“I was given every opportunity by the gods and squandered a gift. I failed to worship at an alter.”  
  
Merlin paused, swallowing and giving himself time voice words he has carried daily.  
  
“He was given to a lordling for daily mass and libation. He was made a chalice for man who already ate at a table laid with gold and he was reduced to a luxury.” A moment more. “I failed him.”  
  
“Perhaps you were given a chance to learn.”  
  
“Perhaps I was not prepared despite years of study.”  
  
“Did you go to mass at your lord protector’s chapel?”  
  
“I did.”  
  
“And despite your shame, did you partake in the sacrament and receive libation?”  
  
“I did.”  
  
“Then why are you ashamed?”  
  
“Because if catechism and faith failed me, in my homeland, on an average day, what is to say I will not fail here, in the holiest of land, with the gift of a second blessing?”  
  
“And yet you still made the pilgrimage?”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“That seems like the essence of humility to the gods to me.”  
  
They had reached a stalemate, and Merlin returned to looking at his hands, hoping that silence was more respectful than unwanted statements.  
  
“The gods have blessed you again?”  
  
“They have, spirit guide.”  
  
“And you know this how?”  
  
“On journey to my lord protector’s keep, I found my blessing in a field, weak yet perfect, kneeling bare in the grass. I could hold him with hip rope, and returned his strength with field rations.”  
  
“And you came directly to the holy lands?”  
  
“No, I bid my lord protector his permission first.”  
  
“And then straight here.”  
  
“On the strongest horse I could procure. With a moon’s full rations.”  
  
“And your goal today?”  
  
“To worship at The Rocks of Nefoedd!”  
  
“Because it is a famous holy site?”  
  
“Because the rocks give me hope to worship and thank the gods for their benevolence. I never thought to be given another chance, and I am thankful.”  
  
“Did you seek consecration before your journey?”  
  
“No, guide. I spoke only invocations, made both before and during the journey.”  
  
“And your blessing. He is prepared?”  
  
There was a sense of panic. Prepared?  
  
“I....I didn’t know there was such a thing? He has been well cared for. I’ve fed him from even my own rations and he was kept comfortable with my own cloak over soft cloth, or even my own warmth if the night was cold. Tithe, when made, was displayed openly on his body. Oblation was given unto him, as it was not made in worship, and so was his by right. Was there more I should have done?”  
  
“No.”  
  
Finally, at long last, there was a pause in the barrage of questions, and Merlin realized that, without prompting or introduction, he had started his Catechism at The Rocks.  
  
“Did you kneel in prayer?”  
  
“No, guide.”  
  
“Was prayer made separately and oblation given as anointment?”  
  
“No, guide. Prayer is made directly to the gods and oblation given unto a blessing. Or when oblation is made kneeling in prayer over a blessing, the oblation becomes an anointment from the gods. No mortal can transmute oblation into anointment. It would be presumption and conceit.”  
  
“And you did not take carnal pleasure in him?”  
  
“No, guide. He is beautiful, but lust is not prayer and a pilgrimage is a journey of spiritual fervor. I handled my lust as I did my physical need for food or sleep. With humility, secondary to the pilgrimage, thankful for the opportunities that allowed me to do so.”  
  
“So you bring a virgin to The Rocks of Nefoedd.”  
  
“I did not ask my blessing, as it does not matter to the gods.”  
  
“And you come to the holy lands to worship and seek blessing?”  
  
"I’m here to pray the gods that the fire of my faith be reflected in my worship, and that my worship be witnessed at their table, in humility and thanks.”  
  
“I suspect you will do well.”  
  
“I’m afraid, guide, that I will fail again.”  
  
“How do you fear you will fail?”  
  
“I fear that I will rut against my blessing without strength of spirit, too weak to give myself over to holy thoughts, and despite my pilgrimage never experience a moment of worship.”  
  
“You would rape him.”  
  
“I would embarrass myself in his presence, while he is unable to move away.”  
  
"Yet you were able to give tithe on the journey?”  
  
“Nearly constantly. Daily I moved display from his face, to his neck, to his chest, and finally his back.”  
  
“And your prayers still feel strong in your blood.”  
  
“Constantly. I dream of the rock formations and how their presence will lend strength when my body fails me.”  
  
“And so where do you see failure. I admit, I do not understand.”  
  
There is a moment where he feels only....the unknown? Small? Mortal?  
  
“I have heard that when you are given sublime benediction, you will know and you will be released from prayer.”  
  
“This is true.”  
  
“And what if I find I am only rutting and then exhausted?”  
  
“Do you think this is what will happen?”  
  
“....no.”  
  
“Then proceed, in faith.”  
  
And for the first time, in weeks since leaving home, he felt a genuine smile of joy cross his face. Again, he thought of his parents and gave them thanks for their absolute dedication to his spiritual education, as he found the correct words coming forth without thought.  
  
“Spirit guide and brother in faith, may I have your blessing to enter these holy lands you keep safe for the gods?”  
  
“You may, and enter with my consecration.”  
  
He leaned forward and kissed the guide’s right hand, smiling and excited. As he stood to his feet, he bowed at the waist again and turned towards the younger brother, who continued to hold the Derwyen’s reins.  
  
And then he paused.  
  
Well, if there was ever a time to ask.  
  
“Spirit guide, please forgive me any unintended insult. But I have a question.”  
  
“You may ask.”  
  
“I understand why guides give oil and balm and flax water. But I have never understood the bound herbs, and there are too many different teachings.”  
  
The was a rattle of amusement, and the guide began to load a small leather satchel. As he filled and wiped down several small clay pots, the guide looked more at his preparations than at him.  
  
“Because some people make their journeys from so far and in such fervor, that by the time they arrive, their blessings, even their saddles, are soaked in tithe and oblation. I have seen supplicants have to scrape their blessings before tying them to the rocks, as their skin has grown too stiff to bend.”  
  
“So it’s for washing?”  
  
“No child. It’s to make sure a mortal body can withstand the fire of faith. There are times when a supplicant’s flesh burns and the spirit is willing, but their body cannot match their spirit. Part of my duties is to guide those of true faith toward their greatest expression devotion.”  
  
“So they are for strength of spirit.”  
  
“They are holy preparations of the church, to be given to consecrated believers on holy ground, to aid their worship.”  
  
“So...I should make every effort to use them?”  
  
Another chuckle, and the satchel was handed over to him.  
  
“I think you will find that you will find tears on your face, asking the gods why your body is failing you when your faith is true. I advise that at that moment, you realize the church supports you and understands that you will need the herbs as a dying man craves water.”  
  
“They are for eating.”  
  
“They are taken into the body in times of need. Trust your faith, and you will not be mistaken.”  
  
“Thank you guide, for your time and your consecration."  
  
“I wish you strength in spirit and sublime benediction.”  
  
****

After so many weeks, it was almost bizarre to realize he was here, a satchel in one hand, the reins of his transport in the other. It felt as if he had blinked and stepped into a world where he was one of the voyagers in a child’s story, more important than the average person only because they had a story worth telling.  
  
Around him were pairs of supplicant and blessing, each pair kneeling on holy land. Male or female, the blessings were held in place by holy rope made from fibers of dried palm, and at the left hand of every blessing was a leather satchel from the spirit guide. No two pairs were the same, but every body and every face held the exhaustion and dedication of holy communion.  
  
The journey here had been worth every minute, every hardship. Ever meal of hard bread and boiled water. It had even been worth his blessing’s tears.  
  
Endless artwork and sculpture had been created, trying to capture the land and the formations around him. Solid rock, tied to the earth itself, immovable, always perfectly spaced and shaped to hold a blessing in place, spread and open for oblation, safe for prayer until a supplicant had exhausted himself in obeisance to the gods.  
  
He looked around him at the grounds known throughout kingdoms to be holy, and felt they were intent on distracting him. Plants yielded fruit and flowers shaped to open a blessing and ease the way for tithe or oblation. Here, the tracks of his horse across the field revealed stones shaped to hold a blessing’s mouth open, laying revealed for taking. To his right was a beautiful patch of uncommon flowers, that would have been his delight on any journey but this one, yet he knew he did not have the luxury of a nap and also he knew he would likely never again see such foliage. His eyes filled with tears as he both saw beauty and attempted to ignore it to fulfill his pilgrimage.  
  
He looked from the grounds around him to his blessing, still tied to the saddle, blinded from the sights around him, wearing only pure cloth over his body, his ears filled with soft batting that had been soaked in holy water. His blessing was tall, but not overly so, even now more thick than lithe, and had skin likely to burn in full sun. So he needed to look for Rocks that received partial shade and yet were spaced far enough apart to accommodate. Knowing himself, he also was looking for hard ground covered with only the thinnest of growth, as he need a firm surface for prayers and to draw strength from his arms if his back failed him.  
  
This time he would not fail, and if for only once in his life, his blood would burn for his gods and they would realize the depth of his gratitude.  
  
****

“Really?”  
  
Merlin said his invocation of respect at each of the four rocks, thanking them for lending their strength to his prayers and for keeping his blessing safe, from the rigors of pilgrimage and from himself.  
  
“These are the holy rocks of Nefoedd? You are just going to tie me up and fuck me in front strangers?”  
  
The soft fibers of the rope in his hands were remarkable, sliding easily past his fingers, never cutting or burning, and he again gave thanks for the consecration that allowed him to use it today.  
  
“Stop Merlin! I don’t want this!”  
  
“Shhh.”  
  
“Merlin please.”  
  
“You’re safe here. Look around. No one here is in pain.”  
  
Arthur chose not to look around. Even batted, his ears could hear the cries of those tied down and the grunting of those using them. Regardless of what Merlin called them, The Rocks of Nefoedd were Raping Rocks, and he was terrified.  
  
“Merlin. This is a field where fanatic obsessionals gather, where slavers are tying helpless men and women to the ground. Please Merlin, let me go.” Arthur pulled on his wrist bonds. “I’ll go on foot and never tell. Just...please.”  
  
Merlin shook his head, unwinding the length of dark rope from where it had been suspended from his hip. “We begin by removing your soft cloth and bathing you with clean consecrated water. After tying you with palm rope, your skin will be made cool and ready with rose balm and then clear oil. Consecration has granted me flax water, to be poured into you and onto you.”  
  
“You’re not listening to me.”  
  
“I can’t.”  
  
“You won’t.”  
  
“I can’t. You don’t know what is happening yet, and your fear keeps you from obeisance. So I will keep you and guide you, and you will see that you participate in the holiest of acts, and your fear will cease.”  
  
With the rope completely unwound, its ends pooling at his feet, Merlin approached Arthur with one end in his hand, heedless of the way Arthur backed away, oddly wishing that Derwyn was at his back again.  
  
“I would like you face up, displayed openly to gods. Will you lie down for me, blessing?”  
  
“I haven’t done this.”  
  
Merlin looked up from the knot he was tying, trying hard to give Arthur his due attention while making sure he was not making careless mistakes.  
  
“This?”  
  
“This. Lying down...with anyone. Please don’t make my first time like this.”  
  
“Like what.”  
  
“Like a whore at an army encampment, used in front of spectators. Please Merlin.”  
  
“You are an angel of grace, made mortal by gods, and displayed on holy ground with the consecration of a spirit guide. You are not the one who needs to be worried about being shamed today.”  
  
****

It had been hours.  
  
Merlin’s hands were cramping and he worried the skin on his hands were chaffing, despite the balm and oil. Still it was necessary, and the flax water was to be saved for inside of his blessing, and so if it was necessary, he would suffer.  
  
“Are you thirsty, blessing?”  
  
Arthur turned his head away, long past testing his bonds with his legs, but still occasionally pulling with his arms, ever hopeful his wrists were looser.  
  
“You’re doing so well. When we started, my two fingers were too much for you, and I’m so sorry for the pain. Your tears hurt me. But now I can see inside of you with a little tug. When you can stay open, even if I remove my fingers, you’ll be ready for flax water.”  
  
Arthur twitched as Merlin once again dipped his fingers in oil and ran them against every warm inch of flesh he could reach inside.  
  
“When I pour the flax water into you, I’ll raise your hips with my own and you can sleep. It will move through you, and I’ll add some every hour while you sleep.”  
  
Merlin rubbed again at that spot inside that made his blessing twitch and try to tighten down on his hands.  
  
“There’ll be so much inside you, blessing, it will be easy. It will drip from you during prayers. Any inability to take you will be only on me.”  
  
Libation was taken from Arthur, the wetness warm and salty and glorious.  
  
“And you will be like the royalty of old, singing songs built by the gods for their ears. And I will kneel over you in prayer hoping that my service will please them.” Merlin chased the last drop of libation, pushing his tongue into the slit on Arthur’s cock, trying hard to focus on his need for libation and not on the instinct to simply suck delicious flesh in carnal pleasure. “Like Emrys unto the Once and Future King. I will be kept strong on your libation, your spend, and the oils of your skin.” Merlin inserted four dripping fingers into Arthur, panting as he watching his hole stretch to take them. “Oh blessing. You are so beautiful and I will do everything I can to give thanks for you.”  
  
****  
Merlin never had been able to buy flax water, but now understood its draw completely. It was slicker than tithe and more importantly did not dry like either tithe or oblation.  
  
He wanted a pot of it forever, and weeks to use it on himself or on a lover.  
  
Or, if he were honest with himself, on his blessing. Forever on his blessing, who should drip with it at all times. Who should bath with it and shine golden in the light.  
  
“What is that?”  
  
“Slick.”  
  
“You’ve put on slick. I’m completely covered in oil. What is _that_.”  
  
Merlin didn’t think before putting 2 fingers into his blessing, dripping with flax water, and he didn’t care that he was ignoring his blessing’s face for the sight of his hole clenching and spreading around his fingers, too slick to be denied any entrance or any angle that came to mind.  
  
Thank you gods, for the blessing I have received. He is beautiful.  
  
Merlin moved his hand from his blessing’s hole to his own cock to collect tithe and then to place his fingers, dripping, back where they belonged. Distantly he could hear his blessing begin to moan, and felt pleased that no matter what, he would enjoy this. A union made holy before the gods themselves.  
  
****  
Spit ran down Merlin’s chin, falling to the ground beneath him, and though it pained him, Merlin took a moment to breathe.  
  
He thought he could happily die, in this place, his mouth sore from moving constantly between Arthur’s hole and his purse, a feast made of the delicate skin between. He had found that if he turned his head slightly to the side, he could press with his mouth and his tongue and feel Arthur’s heartbeat in his mouth. If he moved the fingers of his right hand, still inside of his blessing, then Arthur’s balls moved softly on his cheek.  
  
He thought that perhaps he was being distracted.  
  
Perhaps he had spent too long on this.  
  
But it was joyful, and Arthur had long ago given up hiding his keening, and Merlin could imagine no other pleasure than feeling his blessing tighten on one hand while spilling hot sop into his other.  
  
And the _taste_. Gods above, never let mortal man know that earth’s most divine flavor was to be found behind the purse of a man’s blessing, warm to touch, and shivering constantly.  
  
Despite knowing the angle was better with his head turned, Merlin moved to lie directly between his blessings thighs, not hesitating to push his thighs up and away from what he wanted. His thumbs soothed no doubt straining muscles, but he obeyed only holy instinct and Arthur could still writhe to present the sweetest skin, and it would only be a while longer.  
  
His blessing was as strong as he was beautiful, and this had to be done.  
  
*****

“Open your mouth, my blessing.”  
  
“I will not be bridled by like a horse, Merlin.”  
  
“Open your mouth and the stone will keep your lips spread even when you are tired. If you are sleeping even.”  
  
“You have shown more than proficiency at putting thing things in my mouth, even when I don’t want it.”  
  
Merlin laid his forehead on Arthur’s chest, breathing him in and asking for strength and peace.  
  
“I am to begin by giving all mortal spend to your mouth, using my hands if necessary. It will cleanse my body of lust, and make way for worship unimpeded by the needs of mortal flesh. Without the stones, your jaw and mouth will become sore, and your lips will close on my member, reminding me of the joys of rut. The stone is to keep my actions pure and to keep you safe.”  
  
Arthur turned his head away, lips firmly shut. Merlin, having seen this countless times on pilgrimage, stroked sore fingers through his blessing’s hair.  
  
“I wish you understood how beautiful I find your mouth without artifice.” Merlin kissed Arthur’s brow and then, because it seemed fitting, the side of his nose. “Were this simply for me, I would never distend such a beautiful shape with a tool, no matter where it is found or its holy purpose.” He gave in to one base wish, licking the closed seam between Arthur’s lips, acknowledging if only to himself that this weakness is why the gods demanded the rites proceed as they did. “On pilgrimage here, in those few moments alone for carnal pleasure, I would imagine you, faced turned up, on your knees, with your pink lips going red around me, desperate to swallow me despite barely being able to breathe.” He took a moment to breathe, to remember to separate lust from prayer. “If you only knew how my most base imaginations are your smile turning to consternation as I choke you on my prick, you wouldn’t think this had anything to do with ...bridles.”  
  
In the end, Merlin put his weight on Arthur’s shoulders and pried open his mouth by placing his forearms on his jaw and below his nose. Stone in, he moved his hands over himself, and allowed his spend to pour into Arthur’s mouth even when he saw Arthur tongue it away. Catechism teaches that a holy man can fill his blessing easily, at every stage of the rites, and he knew that with diligent labor Arthur’s mouth would soon be too full to push any of him away.  
  
****  
Earth, and sky, and gods above, should Merlin die it would be with this very image burned in his mind, never to be put aside for any earthly need.  
  
In front of him, Arthur was bent at his knees and hips, his head resting on his forearms, his thighs spread widely enough to give him traction on the thin grass Merlin had chosen.  
  
When Merlin ran his hands over his back, tracing every hill and dip, panting at the pale trails his fingers left behind, he couldn’t feel any regret at how his hands seized at Arthur, sometimes clutching so hard Arthur grunted, or once, even cried out.  
  
There had been so many times on pilgrimage when Arthur had blushed, or turned, or scoffed when Merlin had said he was grace turned mortal, an angel for human blessing. And it near broke Merlin’s heart that he could not see himself now.  
  
The sun hit Arthur’s hair, and it turned shades of white and yellow and gold. Its softness became sunlight itself, and now he knew what both felt like.  
  
His skin was hot, from sun, from internal heat, and felt so smooth that Merlin could not stop running his fingers over it.  
  
Every line of him was inspired, too perfect even for art, and Merlin knew he occasionally lost himself in watching those lines move, either in abandon as Merlin did something right or with a soft groan when Merlin insisted despite Arthur pleading he was exhausted  
  
Not knowing if the gods would forgive, Merlin looked down between then, at the perfect pink ring stretched tight and shiny around his girth. The sight made him buck a few times into his blessing, just to hear him groan and to feel the involuntary tightening that caused a fine, white foam to appear inside of that ring.  
  
With his right hand, Merlin took his finger and swiped all around where they joined, sure to collect everything before scraping it onto his tongue. There was no rite that demanded it, other than the sight of his Arthur bent in front of him, grimacing and bucking at the labors being made over him.  
  
“Tighten up again, beautiful one. It gives me strength.”  
  
And with a hopeless wail, Arthur pushed himself to his hands and knees.  
  
****

Sweat burned his eyes and his hands slipped on his blessing’s wrists, and by the gods his very bones hurt, but there was nothing to do but obey the command to keep his blessing open below him, his thighs spread by his own, his chest up and open to the gods with his own arms.  
  
“Blessing, please. Chest up, heart forward. Open your mouth.”  
  
“No.”  
  
Merlin shoved his hips, so to the movement inside of his blessing forced him to move his hips higher, closer to his shoulders, the perfect arc bringing his chest forward, and his cries opening his mouth.  
  
“You were made for this. Made perfect in the eyes of the gods, and given unto me to display at the rocks. Thighs open, blessing, and your voice holy lyric sung loud.”  
  
Merlin gave into the pounding in his head telling him to move, and felt relief when his actions made his blessing sing for the gods.  
  
****

“Merlin, stop, you’re exhausted.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Merlin, stop. This is not worth it.”  
  
Merlin felt blood moving inside of him, and it was not the blood in his veins or pounding through his head. “Shhh, blessing. You are perfect, and the toil of obeisance is on me.” With the flax water all gone, poured inside of Arthur, Merlin blindly reached for clear oil, pouring it messily between the two of them. “Help me? Help me by staying sweet, and open, and singing to the gods so my efforts may be seen.”  
  
“This is insanity. A man cannot die over this.”  
  
“I will not die as long as you feed me, and should I die it will be in the sweetest service asked of me.” Merlin kissed the flushed throat directly beneath him. “I’m so thirsty blessing. Libation. Please. Even sweat. Anything. _Please_.”  
  
****

"Merlin. Merlin. _Drink_."  
  
Merlin felt the edge of...something...against his mouth and turned away.  
  
"You stupid fool. I will not die amongst your damn raping rocks. Drink it. It's all we have left."  
  
"Supplicants sustain themselves...from libation alone."  
  
"Or from a canteen shoved at them by angry, naked men. _Drink_."  
  
The water, when it came, was bitter and slippery. As if soapnuts had been added.  
  
"The herbs came from that damned bag the fat one gave you. I figured if they were bound with mesh, they were for tea. If not, well...we're both fucked."  
  
Merlin laughed.  
  
****  
  
At the end of it Merlin stood in front of a priest, who was bowed over a stone alter, his blessing on his knees at his right hand side.  
  
“Would you keep him?”  
  
“He is not mine.”  
  
“That was not the question. Would you keep him?”  
  
“I have given a vow to my family and my faith. I cannot keep him close forever and keep my vows.”  
  
“You would turn him aside for children.”  
  
“For the family that provided me with the faith and teachings that led to this pilgrimage.”  
  
There was a silence, and then the sound of the priest’s robes rustling as items were moved around on top of the smooth stone in front of him.  
  
“The gods say they will honor you so that you may keep your vow. You must only continue to pilgrimage to the holy lands, until your blessing shows his first sign of grey.”  
  
Sublime benediction. Pure unbridled joy.  
  
“Holy one, help me understand. He is young and that is many years from now. Does this mean we will have a child after our last pilgrimage?”  
  
“No, Merlin. The journey to the holy lands is long and not easily made, and the gods delight in your faith. They simply wish to see your worship more often, but would not set that trial upon you for a single child. You are right and I apologize. My vision was poorly put into words.” A chuckle, heard even from the folds of the priest’s hood. “Merlin of Camelot, while I cannot see all the gods have gifted you, there will be children. Quite a few of them.” At this the chuckle became a soft laugh. “And I can tell you, that even as a holy voice, it is not often that I am given visions of a man fighting for a seat as his own holiday table, a child hanging from every limb.”  
  
“These children must be made among the rocks?”  
  
“They must be made in holy fervor, with prayers made on holy land.”  
  
“And otherwise? Is Arthur to be given tithe or oblation? Communion? Rut?”  
  
And here there was an awkward pause, and he felt his skin tightened and turn hot when he realized he was discussing coarse, even vulgar, topics with this holiest of the men of cloth.  
  
“The church teaches that tithe should always be displayed upon blessings, and that prayers, if possible, be made every day, in humility. Even years from now, Arthur will still be your blessing and should be treated as such.”  
  
“Holy one, forgive me, but I get the sense that you are mocking me.”  
  
“Well, it is not every day that I am given visions of exactly why a pregnant man cannot easily bend or walk, or for that matter even sit, covered in tithe and carrying the laundry of a dozen children.”  
  
“A dozen?!”  
  
“In this vision, yes. But I cannot tell how far I am in your future. Your blessing has no grey in his hair.”  
  
“Gods.”  
  
“You need not call them. They are well aware of you.”  
  
****  
“Where are we headed?”  
  
Derwyn’s satchels were packed, and Merlin had saddled the horse and was ready to ride. His bones seemed to ache, and he was sure his skin was pale with exhaustion, but a pilgrimage is not made unless one returns home. It was time to get going.  
  
Arthur, on the other hand, sat naked outside the priests’ temple, not even bothering with the pure cloth he had been given at the end of the rites. As far as he was concerned, there was nothing left the people here had not seen, and he would not be shamed for what was done to him these past days.  
  
And he, too, was exhausted.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Where do you want to go? To Tintagel? Or perhaps you have family elsewhere?” Merlin stood holding Derwyn’s bridle, making sure to meet Arthur’s gaze. “I made you a promise, and I will keep it.”  
  
“You’re exhausted.”  
  
“As are you.”  
  
“Hardly.”  
  
“You have every right to be tired. And I will make sure the journey is paced such that you recover easily. Always, blessing, you’ll be taken care of.”  
  
Arthur gazed at his feet, bare in the grass of this odd holy site he was sure he would never understand.  
  
“He said you could keep me, if you wanted.”  
  
“You are not mine.”  
  
“But...he said. And...children.”  
  
“Blessing, please. Let’s not pretend that my preferences are your most pressing concern. Also, as much as it pains both of us, we need to ride. We are not the only people who made pilgrimage here, and this campsite is needed.”  
  
Again, he is met with pursed lips and a head turned to the side.  
  
“If...if it may be the case that you have no where to go, I can suggest several very reputable towns. Large enough for you to start over, small enough for you to succeed. Reparations can be made in making sure you are settled before I leave.”  
  
“He said you could _keep me_. Like I was a bauble from a trip, or a new pet.”  
  
“Hardly. You were there, and you intentionally devalue his words.”  
  
Without warning, Arthur stood. He wrapped his cloth around him and walked toward Derwyn. “We are going to Camelot.” Arthur held his hand out, waiting for the boost Merlin always gave him.  
  
“That’s what you want?”  
  
“I suspect I am pregnant, a man, and have no other options. I’d much rather be a freak in a village I know you have leverage in.”  
  
****  
The night Rhoddion was born, the entire keep gathered outside of Merlin’s small home, fearful of Arthur’s cries but also awed and humble.  
  
Tonight, with the gods’ kind regard, a man would give birth because he was the blessing of a reverent servant.  
  
Amongst them, they ensured hot, clean water and any pure cloth the keep physician would require.  
  
When Merlin emerged from the house in the morning, holding a small bundle swaddled in soft cloth, and announced Rhoddion’s name and the good health of his mother, tears were in the eyes of all witnesses.  
  
They lived in a village watched over by the god’s themselves, and walked in the presence of the gods’ beloved and an angel of grace. This, among all others, was the greatest kingdom in the land.  
  
****  
Rhoddion was wonderfully healthy, and a perfectly normal babe. He woke his parents at all times of night, convincing Arthur that this “honor of the gods” was in fact a mockery of his fallen state. Merlin, to comfort him, let him sleep in at night, and did his best to remain calm when Arthur’s temper failed him.  
  
They had had too many nights when Merlin had been forced to stop Arthur’s anger or fear by forcing him to feel nothing at all. Here, in this house, Arthur would be allowed to be himself, even if the patience required struck Merlin dead.  
  
*****  
His blessing didn’t look at him. He just proceeded to dress down as he entered their home for the evening.  
  
“Arthur.”  
  
“What, am I not a holy object, now that I am delivered of your son with an asshole the size of squash? Now it’s not Blessing, but simply ‘Arthur’?” Arthur snorted as he threw first his cloak and then his overcoat on the front table. He sat at the bench near their door to remove his boots.  
  
“You are beautiful, and you came to stay forever with me.” Arthur ignored him, kicking his boots under the bench and generally making a mess of their small entryway. “Even if you were not my own blessing, you are gorgeous to behold and I would very much like to take you to bed.” Merlin stood from their bed and held out his hand. “Please Arthur.”  
  
Arthur looked from his boots, to the satchel in his hands, to Merlin. His hair fell over his eyes, and yet he didn’t move it.  
  
“What are you talking about? Like you have ever asked to display tithe, or even before giving oblation. Or am I the only one remembering?” Arthur threw his gloves in the general direction of the table. “You smeared that shit over my face in the presence of a priest and the lord protector _on my labor bed_. And my asshole still leaves a marked ring on my small clothes, so don’t even pretend you _ask_ before you take.”  
  
“I am not fulfilling catechism and this is not a holy mission. Lie down with me Arthur, unbound, for pleasure.”  
  
Arthur snorted. “You barbarians and your prayers.”  
  
“Not a prayer. Just you. Willing.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
Merlin turned down the sheet and blanket of their bed, and began to remove his clothes, not hiding any of himself from Arthur. “Because all day I have been panting thinking of how hard I could fuck you before you collapsed on the bed, simply spreading your legs to let me in without challenge.” There was a small clack as Merlin put his marks of service on their table. “I have questioned who I could even ask about whether it was proper to fuck you when you have so recently delivered me a child.” Knowing he was being watched, Merlin placed first balm and then oil on the table beside the bed. “Because I was nearly chastised today by my commander for letting my mind wander to whether your spend would taste differently if it was first poured on these sheets instead of being taken directly from you.”  
  
He turned, naked, hard, and honest toward his chosen husband and the mother of his child.  
  
“All I could think about during the ride home was whether you would make more spend for me during rut than during prayer, and whether I would be ashamed if you actually did.”  
  
“Lust.”  
  
“Absolute lust, Arthur, always, set aside only in prayer.” Merlin sat on the bed and held his hand towards Arthur again. “Will you lie down with me?”  
  
****  
_One year later  
  
_“Harder, Merlin! Dammit, put your back into it.”  
  
“This is near a beating Arthur. Go easy.”  
  
“If I cannot swear on your holy ground that I can feel your cock choking me from where it spears me, I will cry betrayal and divorce you for lack of service in front your lord protector.”  
  
Merlin gripped both sides of Arthur’s neck near his shoulders, and let himself go blind in a frenzy for his blessing.  
  
“That’s fucking it. Now pull my cock and don’t you dare stop until I tell you to.”  
  
****  
_Five years later  
  
_“I cannot go out there like this.”  
  
“You can and you must. Tithe must be displayed upon a blessing. Your children will see only gods’ blessing and your status as an angel upon earth.”  
  
“I am completely covered in your slick.”  
  
“Made while thinking of my blessing from the gods, and in preparation for kneeling in prayer.”  
  
“My face is shiny with precum. You spread it down to my ass and my clothes are sticking to me.”  
  
“Every child in that room exists because you were anointed on holy land by the gods themselves. They should grow up knowing what a blessing and a beloved bride looks like.”  
  
“I am not your wife!”  
  
“You are the mother of my children, and when we are done today, I am going to pray over your body in obeisance , and then rut at you until your spend fills my morning cup.”  
  
Arthur snorted. “By what, putting a pail under me like cow? Good luck with that, as your fucking usually shakes that cot you call a bed so hard I am still shocked it has not fallen to kindling.”  
  
“Well, then. We’ll fuck you over the dinner table with a bowl on the floor, blessing. We’ll send the children to the village for the day.”  
  
****  
As Camelot moved from keep, to village, to town, Merlin and Arthur became known as something of a legend combined with every well-known frustration of a married couple with entirely too many children.  
  
The keep would watch Arthur waddle through the market, throwing items at Merlin, as their young children followed after, seemingly ignored until Arthur would turn sharply to say ‘Put that down and come where I can watch you!”  
  
They would watch as Merlin entered the local tavern at night, and spy as Merlin shared with close friends the trials of turning a small home into a house fit to raise a half-dozen children and a husband-mother who acted as if he were a king. Or an angel made mortal. And they would smile when every spring festival Arthur would appear, heavily pregnant, with a golden garland on his brow, a crown by any other name, but in Camelot simply of a marker of his value to Merlin, as husband, mother, and blessing.  
  
Although the two of them refused to acknowledge it, the day they left the keep to voyage to the holy lands became something of a local holiday.  
  
Merlin’s red blanket from their first pilgrimage had over time gradually become a soft red cloak, and those from Camelot watch as nearly every year Merlin places said red cloak, tied with a golden clasp, over Arthur who stands draped simply in pure cloth.  
  
Children of Camelot run amok around their parents with their coats wrapped around their necks and flower garlands on their heads in place of a golden crown. Every man hoping to one day be seen as a man worthy of their new Lord Protector’s regard aspires to one day be gifted a red cloak embroidered with the Pendragon sigil, and the knights of Camelot are now known throughout Albion by their red drapings, even though very few know the story of why red is their hail color  
  
Near every summer, Arthur will take saddle on the strongest horse Merlin can procure, and rain down fond criticism while Merlin runs in circles around the horse preparing for a journey the entire village knows will take at least a month, and result in another Pendragon.  
  
Still, when they ride off, Merlin wrapped tightly around Arthur, hands on the reins, everyone they pass bows their heads in respect. The gods are not expecting them at their table, and they will not present a miracle in a year’s time.  
  
****  
_Eight Years Later  
  
_“That’s some beautiful jewelry you’re sporting, Princess.”  
  
Arthur looked from Gwaine, following his gaze to his right wrist. There, revealed after he had removed his vambrace, were the outlines of Merlin’s fingers, left there as purple splotches after Merlin’s unending prayers last night.  
  
“Oh? Do you fancy them?”  
  
“A fine set of amethyst for the god-crowned royalty of Camelot.”  
  
He’d learned years ago that any conversation with Gwaine usually started with an insult hiding fine attention to detail.  
  
He’d also learned the best response was brutal honesty wrapped with humor.  
  
“I’m sure, Sir Gwaine, that Sir Percival would gift you with a set of your own, if you were to ask.”  
  
As always, everyone was listening and so everyone laughed as Gwaine sputtered, and for once Arthur felt as if he had the upper hand when it came to his role as Camelot’s revered brood mare.  
  
****

“Blessing, are you comfortable?”  
  
“I am wearing a sleep gown on a horse, with neither a sword nor a purse to protect me.”  
  
“Must you always be so difficult on pilgrimage?”  
  
“Must we go so often, despite the 8 children we already have?”  
  
“It seems wrong to let high summer come without you spread on holy ground, dripping flax water. We have been shown many honors by the gods. I know what I have and I will make time to give thanks.”  
  
“You just want fuck me without toddlers present for a week.”  
  
“I had you last night, so many times you winced when I pushed in the last time.”  
  
“I was sore.”  
  
“Like you haven’t ridden sore before.”  
  
“And still you ask if I’m comfortable wearing a sleep gown, in a saddle, in high summer heat.”  
  
Their horse, Gardnach, plodded forward, generally knowing the way after years of the same journey.  
  
“If you prefer, you may ride on my cock, and speak invocation when oblation is given unto you.”  
  
“I will never understand your commitment to couching a good fuck in incomprehensible terms.”  
  
“So we shouldn’t pause?”  
  
“Grab the slick and lift me onto your lap. Gods know there is little else to do on this so-called pilgrimage to weigh me down with child.”  
  
If Merlin had purchased Gardnach largely for his ability to maintain a slight canter with two grown men on his back, the gods would forgive him.  
  
****  
“My Lord Protector.”  
  
“Please Leon, for gods’ sake, it’s not as if we are at court.”  
  
“My Lord Protector, someone must set an example. This morning Gwaine was...”  
  
“Gwaine?”  
  
“Disrespectful.”  
  
“Leon, I am a 35 year old man who is 7 months pregnant and doing battle drills with a sword. I am working maneuvers knowing full well I cannot see my feet. If I didn’t see him laugh I would have thought him replaced with a changeling.”  
  
“You’re state with child is seen throughout all known lands as a sign that the gods watch over us.”  
  
“Pregnancy may be the gods’ own work, but I doubt they expected Merlin to harvest a child yearly as a farmer does a crop. I have started to plan for labor the way a shepard plans for lambing season, as it comes after Yule but before planting.” Knowing full well every knight of Camelot was listening in, Arthur feigned nonchalance and sighted the edge of his sword. “It’s been years since I’ve gone the whole year with my body as I remember it.”  
  
“Sixteen healthy children in 17 years, with you in good health, is a god’s blessing.”  
  
“Leon?”  
  
“Yes, My Lord?”  
  
“Never use that word in my presence, if you wish to know what’s good for you.”  
  
****  
_Twenty-five years later  
  
_Snoozing on the couch, his youngest wrapped in his arms, Arthur let himself enjoy the moment of simple quiet. He is thankful always that his childbearing days are past, a few gray hairs at his temple, but it will never stop shocking him how his children humble him. His daughter, in his arms, is worth more to him than the castle around him or the livery on the walls.  
  
He could hear Merlin and their oldest, Rhoddion, speaking in the next room. But after a lifetime of hearing Merlin teach his son, when Arthur had thrown up his hands and walked away, Arthur merely dozed and willingly spied, wondering what the lesson was going to be today.  
  
“You cannot tell your mother any of this.”  
  
Arthur opened his eyes.  
  
“But why? If anyone would know how I should proceed, one would think it would be him. I wish only to show respect, and I do not care the circumstances under which she was shown to me.”  
  
“Blessing though she may be, all your mother will hear is ‘slave’ and ‘purchase’, and this house will be hell shortly thereafter.”  
  
“So you would rather I lie to my mother and your blessing, instead of tell him the truth. Which is that by no fault of her own, my blessing was shown to me at a slave market I passed between Mercia and home.”  
  
“I _know_ that. I of all people know that. Still...”  
  
“I mean to purchase her and keep her safe. We’ll come back to Camelot to gather supplies, then make pilgrimage. Gods willing, she will pregnant by fall and my wife by Yule. I don’t understand the problem!”  
  
“There isn’t a problem. There is only your mother’s temper.”  
  
“He is himself a blessing and a living symbol of Camelot’s prosperity!”  
  
“He is a man who is far from home, living a life he did not want.” Merlin looked at his son, who after all these years still struck him as the embodiment of what would have been if Merlin had a single athletic bone in his body.  
  
“You mother...consented...to this life. He did not want it, and if it were possible to leave without consequence, I still am not sure he would stay. So while,” Merlin raised his hand when he saw Rhoddion begin to speak, “So while he lives in Camelot, and in many ways may be Camelot, I do not think he would ever wish the same future on another.”  
  
“I’ll leave.”  
  
“I know that.”  
  
“You won’t see me again.”  
  
“That will break your mother’s heart.”  
  
“Then tell me what to do!”  
  
Unseen, Arthur pets his daughter’s hair, not sure if what Merlin was saying was the truth. Once upon a time, it had been the truth, but now it wasn’t as clear.  
  
“No Rhoddion. You decide what you are willing to do. For her, for yourself, and in thanks to the gods who made her for you.”  
  
Arthur heard a door slam. He rocked his daughter and shushed her when the noise scared her, and wondered what he would do about his own fear.  
  
****  
“I wondered if you would be out here.”  
  
Merlin stepped down from the door, into the small garden they’d had planted years before. “To be honest, though, I thought you’d either be here or screaming at Old Tully, telling him to not sell supply to Rhoddion.”  
  
A gust of air that was somehow bitter. “I did have the thought.”  
  
“And so you’ll support him?”  
  
“I can’t.” Arthur looked at the four satchels at his feet, each one packed for different parts of a journey. Packed, and yet still in their home and not with their son. “I just...can’t.” Without looking at Merlin, he rolled strips of soft cloth and tucked them into the same bag holding soap and canteen of clean water. “But I have decided to trust him.”  
  
“With his pilgrimage.”  
  
“With...his blessing. Or whatever he chooses to call her.”  
  
“Because she is the gods own gift to him.”  
  
“Because his father has shown him countless times what is to be a man who loves well and thoroughly, and I trust in that. If he has found his wife in a slave camp, that means nothing to me.”  
  
“Arthur, you are being willfully blind.”  
  
“I am not!”  
  
“You are only seeing what you want to see and ignoring the rest.”  
  
“I am having faith that I have raised a son who will not hurt another person, even when his faith and his culture expect it of him.”  
  
“He would never hurt her. She will be protected with all his earthly resources, and his body and life if necessary.”  
  
Merlin heard the jangle as Arthur kicked the bag nearest him, putting his head in his hands.  
  
“What if she wants to go home?”  
  
“She cannot.”  
  
“What if she allows him pilgrimage, and even prayer, and then wants to go home?”  
  
“Then he will escort her there, work reparations, and ask for her hand afterward.”  
  
“That’s still rape Merlin.”  
  
“Is that truly what you think, after all these years Arthur?”  
  
“If it’s unwanted. Regardless of how it turns out.”  
  
The two of them sat, looking out at the forest behind their home.  
  
“What if I go with him?” Merlin felt a calloused hand wrap around his.  
“And bring her here, before pilgrimage?”  
  
“Please.”  
  
“She may still not want to go.”  
  
“But I can speak to her.”  
  
“To convince her it is evil?”  
  
“To convince her that it’s....an opportunity. One she need not take.”  
  
Merlin wrapped his hand around his husband’s, knowing full well the toll this conversation was having on him, despite their history and because of it.  
  
“And if she agrees? Will you stop her?”  
  
“Do you love me?”  
  
“I do. Always and completely.”  
  
“Would you let me go?”  
  
“Never. Camelot would burn first, and I will fight kings and their gods.”  
  
“And you think Rhoddion is the same?”  
  
“Yes. And honored among men for knowing it.”  
  
From his seat, Arthur bowed his head over Merlin’s wrist, before kissing his hand, and he didn’t rise after that.  
  
“I will never say this is right Merlin.”  
  
“And I will never expect you to.”  
  
“Then I will...stop fighting.” Merlin ran his hand through beloved greying hair, knowing how hard this was for him.  
  
“And oh gods Merlin, may they both come home happy.”

*****  
Arthur Pendragon died in battle in the winter of his 58th year. At that time, he was the acknowledged high king of Albion and went to war only to defend his people from invasion. He died taking a sword to the heart, and did not live long enough to be brought back to Camelot. His husband, upon hearing, fell to tears on the keep steps and had to be carried away by the guards. As no body had been transported home, his pyre was draped with a red cloak embroidered with the Pendragon sigil. His husband did not attend.  
  
His children, by this time acknowledged by all of Albion to be gifts of the gods, were, largely, offered individual seats of power in Albion. And with 23 of them, there were more than enough to ensure that every land, through their Pendragon, was guarded by the gods themselves. And thus the concept of nobility was formed in Albion, a ruling class deigned by most sacred birth. Which worked for a period of time. Until it didn’t.  
  
Merlin survived his husband by many decades. And already a learned and devout man in his youth, by his twilight he was near a sage, with an ear in every court in Albion. Often because of his wisdom, but also because there wasn’t a king or queen who did not call him father. Or grandfather. Or great grandfather.  
  
And so is the story of how history became religion which became faith, which made history. And that history became legend, and now is seen only as myth.


End file.
